One last Time
by Crux01
Summary: Quinn is back from Syria. Carrie is very angry. Where will this lead...
1. Chapter 1

**One Last Time**

**First Time**

The warm water washed over him in a soporific wave. Quinn closed his eyes, breathed out slowly and forced his taunt muscles to relax as he leaned his head forward onto the shower wall. The effect was instantaneous as an overpowering rush of exhaustion hit him, causing his legs to quake and shiver. He had managed to grab a quick shower and a shave before he boarded his homeward flight but this was the first time he had felt safe enough to relax, to allow the water to soothe him, to ignore the numbingly horrible memories of Syria that he had so recently lived and to think of nothing; to simply breathe and be still.

The sound of the shower over rode all the noises coming from the rest of the room, so he did not hear the door open quietly. His frazzled senses were so shot that they did not perceive that another being had entered the room. He only became aware when the hand touched his shoulder.

His eyes instantly snapped opened as his highly trained alarm response kicked into action, adrenaline suddenly spewed through his system chasing away the tiredness that had so recently reigned. But his attacker was prepared for his response, squeezing his shoulder painfully as they spun him around. He grunted, raised his right arm to strike out and stopped as a moist mouth planted itself on his lips, a tongue probed masterfully into his mouth and a head of blonde hair, now wet from the shower, was below him as hands reached up to draw him down towards her.

He managed to extricate his mouth long enough to mutter, "What the fuck?"

She hesitated before spitting back, "I am so fucking angry with you!" And then the tongue was there again, forcing all words away and demanding his full attention which he gave as the rush of lust starting in the depths of his bowels quivered and rolled upwards.

She certainly had the upper hand following her surprise tactic but he was not going to let that last any longer. He grabbed her lithe, wet body, and pulled her upwards so her feet left the floor. She went with the move, wrapping her sleek legs around his torso and continuing to devour his mouth. He staggered, trembling legs momentarily overcome by her added weight and then regaining his balance, he carried her through to the bedroom, where he threw her to the bed.

She looked up at him, her mouth twisted into a challenging, confident smile that dripped lust and desire. He hesitated, his overwrought mind trying desperately to catch up with his rapidly arousing body. This wasn't happening; how could it be? He must be dreaming, he must still be outside Aleppo, hadn't he had this dream or a similar one so many times before? But it felt so real. He could sense the hot anger of wanting oozing from her sleek wet body. She was wound so tight, her passion multiplied by a deep rage that flashed in her eyes; daring him to do it and he knew that he hadn't the strength to fight the compulsion in her urging. Her anger was contagious feeding on all of his frustration and sadness. So, with a groan that was forced from the deepest part of his being, he fell upon her like a ferocious beast, devoid of all humanity. He slid into her wet heat, feeling as if he were being encased by fire. Suddenly nothing else mattered, nothing else was real except for her slim body moving beneath him and her husky voice urging him on, promising him an end to his misery, a release from his overwhelming frustration, and the opportunity to feel something other than emptiness and sorrow. He yearned for the forgiveness he wanted her to offer, for that release, for those few seconds when the pain and fear and self-loathing would disappear, consumed by the inferno that now enfolded him. The blood roared through his ears and nothing else existed, the room disappeared; there was only her. The world centred on her enticing body below him. There was no human tenderness, no sharing, no softness. They were both lost, drowning in a sea of sensation and she threw her head back and groaned with the wonder of it. The sound pushed him on to a climax that promised to be as brutal as any he had ever known. Tired, strained muscles were suddenly empowered once more, as he slammed into her with no restraint, thrusting furiously as she held him against her and breathed hot words of challenge in his ear until at last his orgasm rushed over and through him with shattering force. It was a divine agony, as below him she tensed, taunt as a bow string, her muscles clamping down on to him and then she relaxed and released with a deep guttural growl as he shot his hot seed far into her flaming depths.

He stared down at her for a moment, his blue eyes wild and glazed, a small part of him horrified at his actions while the rest of him shivered with sheer bliss at the physical experience. She reached up to caress his cheek, drawing her fingertips lightly across his face, tracing the hard line of his cheek bone.

Breathing heavily as he pushed her hand away, his body still shuddering from the aftershocks, Quinn rolled off her and lay staring up at the ceiling, waiting for it all to dissolve away, to become the velvet black night sky of the desert as he woke up alone yet again. But it did not. Instead the exhaustion rolled through him once more and with it came something else, a feeling that the extraordinarily intense physical experience was not enough; the moment though exquisite in its instance, was gone, lost forever. He craved something more, something that would last forever.

Carrie sighed. "I needed that, could do with a fucking cigarette now," she said acidly.

Quinn snorted. "A little clichéd, don't you think?" he muttered, surprised that his voice sounded so unaffected by any of what had just happened.

She turned to look at him, her golden hair splayed out on the bed, her eyes still hooded with the dregs of her lust. "Fuck you, Quinn!"

"You just did." He stood up, trying to look nonchalant but failing as he moved sluggishly back to the bathroom where the shower was still running.

She raised her head from the bed to regard him. "I've been waiting for you to talk to me."

He managed to bark out an incredulous laugh but it cost him. "I didn't think there was anything to say. You gave me your answer. I moved on."

She was sitting up now, pulling a dampened sheet about herself, glancing to the untidy pile of clothes she had left in the corner. "Moved backwards you mean. Did you think I wouldn't find out you were back from Syria?" she continued, running her hand through her wet hair and shaking her head.

"I didn't think you'd care," he replied wondering if it sounded as bitter as it felt.

Carrie stared at him for a long time, her eyes unreadable. "That's not fair. It doesn't make it any easier, you know, the fact that I was right about it." Her eyes searched his but he was in full defensive mode now, remembering he had opened up to her once, showed her his heart and not surprisingly on seeing his weakness, she had rejected it. Now he knew he would never find the courage to do it again and so there was nothing he could find to say. When she realised he wasn't going to give a response, she continued, "For three months I have been trying to get over it all, trying to bond with Frannie, going through the Congressional Hearings, getting over my mother again and Saul..." She stopped, took a deep breath before continuing, "And you know what? All I can think about is those things, those things you said to me after the funeral, I can't get them out of my head." Her stare was unblinking. "Did you mean them?"

He stared holding the intensity in her eyes. "Don't you know?" he asked.

"I thought I did. It sure seemed genuine at the time. But then you went off on another assignment... to fucking Syria. You chose that instead of me."

"Is that really what you think?" he snapped. "I asked you, you said no. There was no point in fucking staying."

"I never said no but no is obviously what you heard or chose to hear." She shook her head. "I said 'give me more time'. Everything went to fuck, in Pakistan, back here with my dad and all. I needed you and you weren't there for me, Quinn, you left me for an operation after everything you had said. I can't get over that, it hurt so much, you'd had my back for so long and I had let myself think that maybe we could, that we might... But you let me down when I really needed you... there is always one last mission with you, you say you will but you will never get out. Why would you for me?" Carrie took a deep gulp, shook her head and stared at him with wild wet eyes. "Shit, I am not good at this, but fuck you, Quinn, I was going to say yes!"

"Yes?" He hesitated then shook his head in disbelief. He hadn't expected this revelation and he couldn't believe it. He had spent every possible hour during his last mission convincing himself that he had done the right thing in leaving, that he could never have been good enough for her. "But I knew you couldn't choose me. Why would you do that? Shit," he muttered. The dread that had been building in him suddenly clutched at his innards hard. He knew he couldn't deal with this; he was strung out from yet another soul destroying mission, he had to get his head around what had happened and yet he could also sense her need to deal with it now. He understood that she had spent the last three months agonising over so much. God it must be tearing her apart. His stomach lurched at what he had put her through and he knew he could not keep hurting her.

Carrie snorted. "And now you're back down your own personal fucking rabbit hole. And you're not going to stop are you? You are going to keep doing it until... until..." She gulped. "How I wish we could get out. I wish I could believe it could be like you said, that we could do it together like two fucked up junkies going cold turkey."

"Fucked up, I guess that's what I am," he responded sadly.

"Do you still think we could, I mean really?" The anger was burnt out and she stared at him with an almost simple wide eyed innocence.

And there it was, the question he had known was coming. Oh, how he wanted to answer it with the wild hope that momentarily rushed through him, the same sweet optimism that had made him really believe, when they had stood bedside his truck on that dreamy night, that anything was possible for them as long as they were together. But how quickly he knew he never could.

"Quinn?" she pressed.

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Carrie." She looked confused, hurt even, as he continued, "You need to find somebody who is right for you, somebody who can give you everything you want. That is not me; I fuck you up."

"But I thought..."

"I can't do it," he said sadly. He moved back to her, bending to give her a soft quick kiss on the cheek and then turned to walk away back to the bathroom, as the snake of despair slithered in his bowels.

She reached out to grasp his slippery wet arm. "Wait. Can't you see you're doing it again, Quinn," she said. "Running back to the fucking mission. Running away!"

He gulped. "May be that's all I can ever do," he said shrugging off her hand.

"How many 'one last times' are there going to be, Quinn?" Her voice had an edge of hysteria to it as her frustrated anger blazed back. He hesitated and stiffened but he did not turn back to her. "Fuck you!" Carrie hissed.

And then her attention shifted from him to the clock on the table. "Fuck!" she breathed. "Is that the time? I got to get Frannie!" She was out of the bed and in her clothes within seconds. Picking up her bag she turned back to him, her face creasing into a concerned look. "Since you are so hell-bent on not staying around, there's another mission lined up for you in Russia but know this, I'll be in the Ops Room, I'll have your back, and don't think I won't be doing everything in my power to get you home safely because, even after all this, I fucking still can't lose you, Quinn!"

He glanced down unable to find the courage to face her and when he finally did she was gone. Only her voice lingering on the air, "See you at work!" As the door closed with a resounding and very final bang.

Quinn drew in a long, deep breath and slowly shook his head as he tried to remember just how he had got himself into this situation. He slumped to lean on the door frame and then sighed all of the air back out of his lungs again. She hadn't wanted the life he had offered; it was stupid of him to have ever thought she would, that she would give up the CIA for him when she was so addicted to the job.

"Love you too, Carrie," he muttered sadly. How long had he dreamed of this day? How long had he wanted to fuck Carrie Mathieson? How many nights had been punctuated with this overwhelming need to take her in his arms, to save her from all the shit that the world threw at her? How long had he dreamed that he could make her happy? And now he had fucked her; he had the smell of her on his skin, the taste of her on his lips, he had heard the hitch in her breathing leading up to the ecstatic groan when he had made her come hard...

...and yet, as ever, he had fucked it up.

Consciously pooling all of his emotion into a small compartment deep within his mind and slamming the lid tightly shut, closing off even the merest memory of its existence, he turned back to the shower to wash away every trace of her, the only woman he had ever met who had the power to save him.


	2. How Deep is the Snow

**How Deep is the Snow**

Quinn always thought that the waiting was the hardest part. The time when the promise of one explosive moment of action, followed by the gut wrenching flight to sanctuary, was only that; a promise. The time when the plan was all he had and dwelling on its specifics only opened the way to doubt and doubt was the one feeling that he could not allow into his mind, for once there it would fester and grow stealing his commitment and conviction, opening the way for failure. And failure was simply not an option, not after all that had gone before, not now, not this time. For a second he allowed himself the luxury of believing that this really was his last mission and after it there would be no more; but only for a second. Then he pulled his mind back to the case in hand.

He sniffed, slowly flexing his stiffening muscles and squinting through the sights of his rifle again, checking his positioning, his view. Fuck it was cold! It had begun to snow a few hours before, lazy huge flakes silently falling from the black sky to cover the sinister foreign city in a shroud of stark white. He was a child of the 80s, spending most of his career fighting terrorists in places significantly warmer than the lonely fire escape he now found himself on. He was more used to dealing with the sweat dripping into his eyes and the buzz of mosquitoes instead of trying desperately to find some shelter from the brutal wind that threatened to freeze the air in his lungs. He sniffed again, suppressing the shiver and pulling his coat tighter around him as he hunched around his gun.

How much longer? He didn't want to look at his watch, to risk pulling his arm out of the warmth of his sleeve into the biting cold and he would not allow himself to have the thought that something was wrong; such analysis was for the debrief later. His earpiece was silent - normal radio protocol on a mission, especially one like this deep in the heart of Russian territory, anyone could be listening in. He knew somewhere back in the warmth of Langley, a whole room full of officers were doing just that, waiting, listening and ready to support him in anyway they could to get him out once it was done.

She was there and he trusted her above all others... even though things between them had not been good since his return from Syria, in their professional world he knew there was no one better.

It was quiet, eerily so as the snow continued to fall. There had been people in the square earlier, hidden behind the collars of their coats, heads bent, hats pulled down, shambling through the snow as fast as they could to get home. But that seemed like hours ago, so long that their tracks had gone, covered by the blanket of pure whiteness that continued to deepen. Now there was no-one; only Quinn. The dark monoliths of buildings loomed over him, infinitely grey and colourless, brooding and somehow ominous in their silence. He kept his concentration across the dully lit courtyard on the door, waiting for it to open, waiting for the moment but still nothing stirred.

Quinn flexed his trigger finger and then the rest of the fingers on his hand, pushing away from his mind the fleeting worry that his thick gloves would somehow interfere with his shot. He had no time for indecision, none for doubt. He would allow nothing to deflect him from his course, he was completely confident, secure in the knowledge that he could not fail. His teeth began to chatter alarmingly but he ignored them; it had been a long time since he had felt this controlled, this focused. Something deep within him that he kept locked away was suddenly free once more. Like an animal before a coming storm he shivered and it was only partly due to the cold. He had forgotten the thrill of the hunt, allowed himself to hate what that thrill turned him into and in so doing had lost his purpose and become something less than he could be. Now in the bitter snow storm, as he waited, the thrilling expectation of the kill buzzing through his veins, Quinn's whole being remembered and the intensity of his wanting was so strong he could smell its mesmerising stench.

He could wait for however long it took and he would wait because this was what Quinn was made for, this was where he found his courage and his strength. He understood that at this moment. He had to do this. He had to believe that he was a good guy, that the ones he killed were the bad guys because, if he did not, there was no point to any of it, no point to him. There was no place for what would come after; the agonising guilt and self loathing, the need to escape. Not now, now the mission was everything.

He licked his lips, feeling the moisture freezing and hardening the skin. A movement to his side caught his eye, drew his attention away from the doorway. A small grey bird of some sort had landed on the railing to his right. It sat staring at him with bottomless black eyes, tilting its head questioningly.

Quinn leaned to his right, not sure whether he was trying to coax the cold, insignificant thing nearer or shoo it away. Whatever the reason, the movement saved his life as a high velocity bullet thudded into the wall behind him, lightly grazing through his coat and the flesh at the top of his left shoulder. If he had not moved it would have been a fatal head shot.

The noise of a bullet whizzing past him was not unknown to Quinn and his finely honed reactions took over. "Fuck!" he muttered as he abandoned his rifle and threw himself further to the right, down the fire escape stairs. He slipped and fell, banging into the metal rails painfully, bouncing back crazily but continuing his descent until he ended up on his knees at the bottom. With a groan he forced himself to get up, to slip and slide through the snow, deep into the shadows of the buildings around him. As he went his eyes scanned the area trying to see where his assailant was but nothing moved.

"Come in romeo three. This is home base, " a voice in his ear suddenly crackled. "What is your status?"

Forcing himself against the wall in front of him, Quinn began to move along it, sliding as he went. "Home base, this is romeo three," he hissed. "Mission aborted. I repeat mission aborted. I need urgent retrieval. Repeat urgent."

There was a moment's silence from the radio. Quinn could imagine the suddenly concerned looks being exchanged back at base. "Copy that, romeo three," the voice responded.

Quinn wasn't surprised when another, more familiar voice sounded in his ear. "Quinn, it's Carrie," she said. "What's happening?"

"Target didn't show," he replied. "I need you to get me out, Carrie." He wondered if she was remembering another time she was asked for help like this, not from him but from Saul, wondered it she was recalling the fuck up in Pakistan that it became. Her voice, as it came again, was strained but professional. He allowed himself a grim smile; he knew she was close to the edge and he also knew that was where she needed to be to operate at her best. "Copy that, romeo three," she replied. "Give me a few seconds..."

"I ain't going anywhere," Quinn replied stopping his slide. He took the opportunity to investigate his shoulder, biting his lip as his gloved hand probed and he noticed the pain for the first time. It was only a flesh wound but bleeding quite badly anyway. He really needed to get it looked at but it would have to wait. He lifted a handful of snow, crushed it and wiped it into the wound, hoping that the cold would at least stem the flow a little. Then he ripped the scarf from his throat and shoved it between his shirt and skin over the wound. Finally he unzipped his heavy coat and took out his gun, fitting its silencer grimly. As he waited he could feel slick sweat pooling at the base of his spine and adrenaline pumping into his expectant limbs.

"Romeo three, this is home base, do you copy?"

"I copy, go ahead home base."

"Revised retrieval plan in place but you need to get across the city. Can you do that?"

Quinn snorted. "There's a fucking blizzard going on!"

He heard her frustrated breath, knew the face she would be pulling, before she retorted, "Do you want to get out of there or not? I need you to head north along the road from the courtyard."

"Negative home base. There are unfriendlies in the courtyard, I cannot cross it. You need to get me round another way. Keeping to the darkness."

Her voice was higher, "Unfriendlies?"she repeated. "Why the fuck didn't you say? How many and where?"

Quinn sighed. "I don't know. I just know they took a pot shot at me... Fuck!" He was crouched by the wall but looking over his shoulder into the square.

"What?"

"APC just arrived and another, spewing soldiers. They look pretty pissed. I need to get out of here quickly!" Quinn began to move again, keeping in the shadow of the buildings, away from the square where a whole squad of Russian soldiers were filing out of the APCs.

"We copy romeo three," Carrie's voice crackled in his ear again. "How deep is the snow?"

Quinn allowed himself a further grim smirk at Carrie's seemingly random weather question - he knew exactly what she was asking. "Too fucking deep," came his reply. "Your grandmother could follow me in this. Once they find my trail, I'm dead."

"OK, secrecy isn't an option. Speed is the key and keeping you out of sight. We're gonna zigzag to the pick up point. Take a left at the end of the next block."

Running through the snow was almost impossible. On a number of occasions Quinn skidded and once fell but he pulled himself up and kept going. He was sweating and yet where the snowflakes hit exposed skin he was freezing. His clothing was heavy and wet and seemed to be pulling him back but breathing through the exertion in the freezing weather was the hardest part. His lungs began to cry for him to stop, to at least cough but he ignored them as he ignored everything else. He had one goal and one goal only... to get to the pick up point.

Carrie directed him through a maze of streets, twisting and turning, so that even if his pursuers were relatively close, they could not see him, couldn't get a sight on him. "How much further?" he choked out between iced breaths.

"You're over half way," Carrie responded.

"Are you fucking kidding me? It feels like I've run to fucking St Petersburg," he spat, as behind him the echo of a gun shot sounded for the first time.

"Shut up and run!" Carrie counted. "Go left up here."

He turned and ran straight into a rigid cold barrier of wood. "There's a fucking fence!" he snapped.

"Jump it!"

He took a run at it and hit the barrier full on, landing in a grunting heap in the cold snow. He stood and turned around, adrenaline flooding through his veins, looking for another way but all was black except for the light coming from the road he had just left. Over his own panting breaths and his heart tattooing in his chest, he could hear the unmistakeable crunch of boots on snow. He was cornered, no longer the hunter, he was the fox and the baying hounds were closing in.

"Fuck!" he muttered.

"Quinn?" Carrie's voice was there again."Are you over?"

He took a long deep breath, ripping off his heavy winter coat, he discarded it in the snow as sweat steamed off him and he shoved his gun down the waist of his pants. He heard a shout as he launched himself at the fence, managed to get his right hand wedged around the top and hung there for a few bowel churning seconds expecting a bullet between his shoulder blades at any time, as he struggled to lift his left hand up to join it. Ignoring the pain and the ripping sensation in his shoulder he finally managed to get a strong enough hold to lever himself up and over. The snow piled up on the other side gave him a relatively soft, if cold and wet, landing.

"I'm over," he groaned.

"Straight ahead," came Carrie's terse response.

"It's pitch black," Quinn shot back. "I can't see a fucking thing!"

"Straight a fucking head!"

Behind him he heard the crunching getting closer, so he simply followed his orders, trusting completely in Carrie. "There's another fence, pick up team is on the other side," she instructed.

With his hands out in front of him he managed not to walk straight into the second fence. He could hear the curses and shouts as his pursuers negotiated the first obstacle. He hesitated again and a bullet hit the wood to his right, followed by another and another. He threw himself to the floor and desperately began to crawl along the bottom of the fence. Suddenly in front of him a portion of the fence opened towards him and a voice called out. "Romeo three?"

"You my ride?" Quinn hissed.

"Yes sir," came the reply.

"Thank fuck!" Quinn muttered. As he slithered toward the opening in the fence, he drew his gun and fired as many shots over his shoulder into the darkness as he could. Then he threw himself through the opening and into the arms of his retrieval team, feeling a little satisfaction as he heard the startled cries emanating from a number of his assailants who had been hit by his last desperate volley of bullets.

He never noticed until he was secreted in the getaway car, breathing heavily, washed in freezing sweat, and listening to its radio, that Carrie had gone silent in his ear; the earpiece must have fallen out in his last dash to safety.

It lay on the snow until the next morning when two shadowy figures clad anonymously in warm furs and winter clothing stood at the fence appraising the situation. The bigger one knelt and picked up the earpiece.

"Basic CIA issue," he growled in Russian, showing it to the smaller figure at his side who was already holding Quinn's stiffly frozen coat, retrieved from the other side of the fence.

"He should have never been allowed to get away," responded a woman's voice, as cold as the freezing Russian day.

"On the contrary, my little one," came the reply from the man, who, clad in his dark furs resembled a powerful, dangerous bear. "That is exactly what should have happened." He moved his massive snow-booted foot to indicate a patch of once scarlet blood now fading to brown in the snow. "The wounded cub has escaped this trap but it will deliver the required message to the wily old fox. This is just the start my dear. As I have told you many times, to win at this game one must simply have patience. We have waited a long time for this. We can wait a little more..."


	3. If This is the Cold War I'm Not

**If This is the Cold War I'm Not Impressed**

"They will see you now, Sir."

The receptionist gave him a beaming smile and indicated he should go through to the debrief room. He stood stiffly and moved in the direction shown.

The atmosphere in the room was tense, Quinn knew that there was friction from past events between the three people waiting for him, thankfully nobody had seen fit to share the details with him and he had never asked. Saul Berensen was looking grey, old and somehow distant since his experiences in Pakistan. Although he was back as CIA Director, Quinn believed he was not the man he had once been - his authority was questionable and Quinn sensed that Dar Adal, staring at him now with that prim, conceited, predatory look he always had, was the real power in the Agency. That thought caused a feeling of impending doom to clutch at Quinn's innards. He pushed it away, concentrating on the third person; Carrie Matheson, who was trying very hard not to show anything at all. Quinn took the seat indicated.

"How's the arm?" Saul asked, even his voice was lacking in strength.

Quinn unconsciously twitched the sling that encased his left arm. "Fine," he replied.

"And the rest of you?" Saul asked.

"The same."

"Carrie informs me it got tight out there."

Quinn snorted. "If that's the fucking Cold War you two are always reminiscing about, I can't say I'm impressed!" he shrugged, his eyes flicking around the room to come to rest yet again on Carrie who refused to look at him as Dar Adal let out a grim chuckle. "I'm here, aren't I?" Quinn finished.

There was a long silence as Saul took a deep ragged breath. "Yes you are," he agreed finally. "And we need to debrief. Carrie?"

Finally she looked at Quinn. He tilted his head slightly in an unspoken question but she ignored him, her appraising stare was strictly professional. "So what happened?" she asked simply.

Quinn shrugged again, ignoring the pain the gesture brought to his shoulder. The journey back had given him a long time to consider what had happened. His conclusion was obvious and terrifying. "I was expected."

"How do you know?" Carrie didn't appear in the least surprised at his revelation.

He gave her the best withering stare he could muster. "It took too long, it never felt like the mark was there and then, when two APCs and a whole squad of grunts turned up, it sort of gave the fucking game away."

"They were Russian soldiers?" she asked her tone neutral.

"Looked that way," Quinn responded. "Some fucking 'friends' they turned out to be."

The three sets of eyes stared at him in eloquent silence. Saul and Dar Adal exchanged a look, before Saul nodded. "We agree with your analysis," he said. "Further developments confirm it."

Quinn leaned forwards unable to hide his interest. "Further developments?" he repeated.

Dar Adal cleared his throat. "In the last four weeks we have had three black ops operations in play," he said. "Intel on all was from a credible source. All have been unsuccessful."

"What?" Quinn was incredulous.

"It would appear," Adal continued calmly. "That someone is trying to shut us, or to be more precise me, down."

"We don't know for sure, Dar," Saul said. "It might not be so personal." His voice was tired and lifeless.

"It fucking feels that way!" Adal snapped, his confident veneer slipping for once as his dark eyes flashed angrily.

"And the men you sent out?" Quinn asked.

"Thankfully all returned," Carrie confirmed.

Quinn glanced back at Carrie; at least now she was looking at him. He cocked his head slightly one more wanting a response, but again she ignored him and said, "So what now?"

"We need to look at the intel again, sources and contacts etc," Saul instructed. "See if there are any connections."

Carrie nodded. "I'm on it."

"Dar and me, need to take a trip down memory lane and see if we can come up with any names," Saul continued.

"And me?" Quinn asked.

Saul forced a weak smile, the first person in the room to do so. "You need to get some sleep, Peter. Go home and relax a little. I want you fit and ready when the time comes. I have a feeling this is going to get ugly."

* * *

Carrie looked up at the gentle muffled rap on her office door. "Hey," she said. "I thought you were having a little R and R." As she indicated for Quinn to enter.

He gave a sheepish shrug and a half smile as he struggled to close the door, while carrying two coffees in his uninjured hand. He placed one on the desk in front of Carrie and moved to sit in the vacant chair, as he muttered, "Just can't keep away. Thanks for getting me out of Russia."

Carrie snorted. "All part of the service." She stopped and looked at him. "We need to sort out ... about before..." she began uncertainly and then stopped again.

Inwardly Quinn cringed, the one thing he did not want to talk about was their previous encounter. Thankfully he could tell from her hesitation that she felt the same way. "No, let's just concentrate on the work for now," he said and noted the relieved way her body relaxed as she gratefully accepted his suggestion. "Fill me in on where we got to," he continued, knowing that at some point they would have to address the issue but lacking the courage to face it at this moment.

Carrie's eyes bored into him and then she said, "Dar has come up with a list," she passed a sheet of paper across to him, he scanned down the list of names, chewing his lip nervously. He handed it back, shaking his head. "Means nothing to me."

"Nor me, but we're checking them out, anyway. Who knows something might come up."

"I think Dar is being a little modest," Quinn said taking a sip of his coffee. "A career doing what he does and he can name his enemies on one piece of paper!" He shook his head in disbelief.

Carrie rolled her eyes. "And after your Syrian adventure, here's me thinking you are still 'his guy', Quinn!"

Quinn pulled a face but didn't respond. They sat in an irritated silence for a while, each sipping at their drinks. He hated it when she spoke of Dar Adal, always got the feeling that there was something that Carrie wanted to tell him but couldn't and it was another subject where he just could not find the strength to investigate, so it remained between them; just one more thing on the toxic pile of conversations they didn't have.

"I've been reading your report from the Russia mission," Carrie began finally. "Like you say it seems odd that the sniper waited so long. If they had such a good bead on you and they wanted to take you out, why wait?"

Quinn shrugged painfully. "Wouldn't have been the way I would have done it. Who was this Mohammad anyway?"

"A Taliban leader, Jalaj Mohammad. The intel said he was in Russia to met with a Chechen rebel fighter, Kazan Radyrov. The idea that there was some sort of connection going on between the two was too terrifying to miss. You were supposed to take out Mohammad and the Russians finish Radyrov."

"And where did this intel come from?"

Carrie sighed. "The Russians."

Quinn rolled his eyes. "So why weren't they taking him out as well?"

Carrie shrugged. "Mohammad is from Afghanistan; not their problem any more."

They sat sipping in silence again although this time it was more awkward than irritated, each trying to find something to say that did not take them back to where they couldn't go but neither succeeding.

"You hear about Delph?" Carrie asked finally.

"Simon Delph? No?"

"You know him?"

"Did a couple of ops missions with him over the years. He seemed solid, good even. Why?"

Carrie hesitated. "He was on the first of Dar's missions. He made it back with a minor wound, much like you. Anyway he was doing OK. Back at work, doing the regular shit and then yesterday he just collapsed, massive organ failure. He's in intensive care but it's just a matter of time before they switch off the machines."

Quinn snorted. Stood up and moved to look out of the window. Below him was the parking lot, busy as always with cars and people and over to his left the black, scorched land that was a memorial to Nazir's bomb. He didn't see any of it. "Shit happens - life's just a list of last goodbyes," he muttered finally.

Carrie moved to stand beside him. They were so close, her musky perfume assaulted his nostrils and he felt his innards quiver. He wanted to reach out to her but instead he did nothing, didn't even allow himself to look at her. He turned away, walked to the door. "I'll be at my desk," he said, only then noticing that her hand was wavering impotently in mid air, stopped by his movement as she had sought to comfort him. She snatched it back to her side and then lifted it to run it too nonchalantly through her hair.

"OK," she replied in a husky voice, not turning away from the window. He gulped and was gone.

* * *

"Quinn?"

He had been sitting at his desk for most of the day, shifting around papers, prodding one-handed at keys on his laptop, grunting at people who talked to him, and achieving absolutely nothing. He looked up now to see Carrie bearing down on him, animated with excitement and energy. In that moment he envied her such controlled conviction and asked himself why was it he was either aimless and disinterested or so committed that he could see nothing but the mission? What he wouldn't give to be able to summon up a little healthy engagement balanced with a safe detachment like other people seemed to do naturally.

Feeling like a lap dog, he stood and followed her to the briefing, slouched in a chair at the back and tried to concentrate but he couldn't take his eyes of that familiar blonde head, the lines of her body, the way she sat, tense and prepared, every muscle taunt, ready for action. She was so incredibly attractive to him that he had to fight the completely ridiculous urge to jump her there and then. To think he had held her in his arms and fucked it all up.

God why had he ever told her how he felt? Even after all the shit in Pakistan, he had known he should just walk away, why did he succumb to the weakness after her father's funeral? It had just felt so right - how fucking dumb was he? He had known as well as her that they were better off apart, that nothing good could come from getting any closer - it was bad for Carrie, bad for him and bad for the rest of the fucked up world. Thank God that Carrie had retained her sense to see it.

And then, after his return from Syria, after he tasted her sweetness, he saw it clearly now; all Carrie needed was the physicality of the sex, he could be any man, he was a convenience nothing more. And how he hated it for he was trapped; too addicted to leave and too petrified to tell her again how he felt, because she obviously didn't share his feelings, so he sat in a room full of people who were discussing important, world shattering happenings, and all he could concentrate on was the way her hair fell over the back of her neck, remembering its softness from a still evening three months before when the world had seemed filled with prefect possibilities.

"No," he muttered, standing up, he lurched out of the room, noisily almost falling over his chair as he went followed by a roomful of questioning stares. Saul hesitated in his brief and threw a questioning glance at Carrie, who simply shrugged and focused back on to the briefing.

* * *

"Delph just died."

Carrie's voice was strangely emotionless. She hadn't spoken to him since his hasty departure from the briefing room two days before. He was glad of that at least, knowing how pissed she would be at him for his behaviour. Fuck, the mere thought of what she must think of his continually exposed weakness was so bad he could hardly bring himself to finish thinking it.

He grunted, not knowing what to say. "There's more to this," she continued.

"What?" he asked, suddenly and irrationally, he was both intimidated and frustrated by her obtuseness.

"Can you come to the hospital at the Air Force Base, please?"

He pulled a face. "What now? Why?"

"Can you just come please?"

Carrie Mathison was saying please to him, that normally meant something big was going down. But why a hospital? "Be there in ten," he concluded and hung up.

She was standing talking to a tall, blond guy in a white coat which did not hide the fact that this man had the physique of a Greek god and oozed the self-assurance to match. The guy was out of line in so many ways; beaming his thousand dollar smile all over Carrie, standing too close, his hand on her sleeve when it had no right to be anywhere near. Quinn hated him on sight.

Carrie managed to switch off her own reciprocating smile as she turned towards Quinn but he still saw its last trace fading from her face and felt a rush of jealousy turn his world green.

"You made it, at last!" Carrie began. "Professor this is Peter Quinn, this is Professor John Addison."

They shook hands grudgingly, Professor Addison's smile although still gleaming with confidence was nowhere near so warm as earlier. Quinn didn't even contemplate moving his facial muscles into anything but a scowl. "So?" he asked impatiently.

"Take a seat," Addison purred, his voice attractively deep and his wide-mouthed, plummy English accent making Quinn fantasise that he had something particularly repellant in his mouth.

"I'll stand," Quinn drawled.

Carrie, standing in the middle, flicked a glance between the two of them, sensed the tension and rolled her eyes. "Professor maybe it's better if I fill Quinn in. If you don't mind?"

That twenty four carat smile was there again for her. "Of course. I have work to do but I'll be around, if you need me." He backed away, never taking his startling blue eyes from Carrie's until he moved through the glass door into the laboratory beyond.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Quinn?" Carrie turned to him, angry eyes blazing.

"Me? Not a fucking thing! You're the one who wanted to meet in a hospital." He tossed his head towards were the Professor had disappeared about to go on but she cut him off.

"Jesus, Quinn! For your information Professor John Addison is a world renowned micro biological engineer working for the government on a weapons programme. Since he came over here from the UK he had become our leading authority in this area! He just flew in from Stanford to help us."

Quinn snorted in disgust. "Oh, the kind of guy that kills people with a test tube, eh?" It was a cheap shot and he knew it.

Carrie's eyes were hard, flashing an angry challenge as she shook her head slowly, not to be outdone, she spat, "As opposed to the kind of guy that glorifies in wet work so much, he can't give it up even though he keeps saying he wants to?"

Quinn took a step back as if she had hit him. He momentarily tottered, unsure as to whether to stay or go. In the end he gulped, ignored the painful truth of her insightful, putdown and forced himself to say, "What happened?"

Carrie snorted and then started talking very fast, her pace slowing as she got further into the story and her anger at him dissipated. "I told you, first off Delph died. Then, this morning, a second black ops guy who was injured on the next mission, Lawrie Renshaw," she stopped and Quinn shook his head to indicate he didn't know the man. "He collapsed and was rushed in to this hospital with multiple organ failure."

"Same as Delph?"

She nodded. "We thought it was probably just a coincidence but then Delph's autopsy came back with some bizarre results."

Quinn's eyes narrowed. "Bizarre results?"

Carrie took a deep breath and refused to meet his intense gaze as she continued. "He had some sort of virus in his blood. We've tested Renshaw and he has it too. It could be nothing..."

"But you don't think so and that's why you've flown in 'the 'brilliant and beautiful' professor?"

Carrie nodded again, in full professional mode this time she ignored the childish sarcasm at the end of his comment. "At the debrief on the Russia operation you said that you had to wait, that you thought your mark was never even there. Afterwards you told me you couldn't understand why the sniper waited so long, and that you were lucky that you moved just before the head shot. What if that was what they were waiting for? What if they never wanted to kill you, just wing you?"

"That makes no sense? What lure me there just to do that?"

"The two guys who made it out of the fucked up black ops missions came back with a minor bullet wound, one to the leg, the other to the shoulder like you. Now they have both been found to have a unknown virus in their bodies. Quinn, what if that virus was transmitted through the bullets they took?"

"Sounds like a fucking bad Sci-fi movie plot," Quinn snorted.

"Not as far fetched as you think," Addison's assertive voice came from the doorway. "We have been working on something similar for quite some time." He shook his head in admiration. "If they have cracked it, it will be an extraordinary piece of microbiological engineering!"

Quinn snorted again, bristling immediately at the man's re-entrance and annoyed with himself for not noting it previously. How long had he been listening? "Excuse me if I don't share your enthusiasm," he snapped.

"Quinn," Carrie's voice was low and hard as she continued, "We need to test you."

"Test me?"

She nodded. "We need to see if the virus... If you..." She let the sentence hover unfinished on the air.

Quinn gulped. "Fuck!" he muttered.


	4. Infected

**I****nfected**

"Do you know?" Quinn asked, his voice dangerously low. Professor Addison nodded and shot a glance towards Carrie. "Tell me," Quinn continued.

The Professor seemed to have lost some of his overbearing confidence as Quinn's assassin stare bore into him. In fact he looked positively sick and had to work at keeping his voice clinically impartial as he replied. "It's positive."

"Fuck," Carrie breathed out.

Quinn stood completely still, only a muscle flicking on the side of his jaw as he continued to stare at the Professor, his eyes deep pools of incomprehensible blackness in their blue. Finally he said, "Is it contagious? Could I have passed it on?"

"We don't have a complete picture on this yet. We know the 'what' but not the 'how'," Addison responded. "We have to do much more testing but at the moment we need to get you into an isolation ward, just to be on the safe side. My staff are preparing one here for you."

Quinn let out a long sigh and only then did he look at Carrie who was staring at him with wide, wild eyes. They held the stare for long seconds and then Quinn gulped, turned his attention back to the Professor. "Could it be wrong, the test?"

Addison shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

Quinn nodded. "How long do I have?"

"Again, I am sorry I can't give you any more, until we do more tests, I can't say. Your two colleagues lasted over a week before this thing kicked in. We don't even know if it is pre-programmed to stay dormant for a specific time or whether it is can be controlled by some sort of external source."

"And will you be able to find these things out?"

"I sincerely hope so," the Professor replied. "Time is of the essence, I need to get back to the lab. In the meantime we need to do further tests on you. We will make you as comfortable here as we possibly can."

Quinn nodded as the Professor moved away, delaying speaking further until he was alone with Carrie. "I am not sitting here like a fucking lab rat waiting for some fucker to activate a virus in me that is going to kill me - fuck that!"

"Quinn, we don't know enough about it. You need to be here where they can care for you if..."

"Where they can plug me up to a fucking machine and keep me alive? No fucking way."

"But they need to learn more about it, they..."

"Let them experiment on somebody else," Quinn was controlled but his tone was scorching as he continued, "I cannot sit here and wait, better on a mission."

She sensed it then, for all of his calm control, underneath the anger was roaring through his veins with a molten heat. "On a mission? " She moved toward him but hesitated when she got close enough to feel the heat of the deep but restrained fury radiating off him.

"I am not staying here, Carrie. You either let me help or I will go it alone. I need to be in control of this!" There was a catch to his voice and his eyes were wide, pleading with her. He was so close to losing his steely composure that he was hanging on by the merest thread. Her heart lurched and she reached out to embrace him. He stiffened, surprised by her movement and then he stepped away. "Fuck this!" he groaned as realisation hit him. "I could fucking give it to you!"

"Which is why you have to stay here." Carrie said sadly.

They stood close enough for her to sense that his anger had changed to desperation which was buzzing through him like electricity in a wire. She had not felt this close to him since that night beside his pickup. As if reading her mind, he instinctively moved further away from her, as though her physical touch was more deadly to him than the unknown virus that lurked maliciously in his bloodstream.

She managed a brief brave smile. "We can sort this out, we can, I know it," she offered. "You know I can't afford to lose you, Quinn. Not now, not ever."

He stared at her in that unreadable way of his, his moment of vulnerability gone, his inscrutable barrier once more very much in place between them. Carrie had the overwhelming feeling that she had missed something important but what that was she was not entirely sure.

* * *

"So all three of the black ops guys that returned have got the virus in their blood streams?" Saul asked. Carrie nodded, not trusting her voice. "And what is the prognosis?"

"One down, two to go," Dar Adal said callously.

An icy shiver of angry hatred flashed through Carrie that she could barely contain. She detested bring in the same room as these two men but knew that at this moment they were the best chance she had to save Quinn. She held on to the grim belief that the day was not too far away when she would be able to wipe that fucking overconfident smile off Dar's face and as for Saul, she could not even begin to quantify the enormity of her loathing after his betrayal. Stoically she bore it alone and silently, pushing it away so she could get what she needed from them at this very second.

"How's Quinn?" Saul asked.

Carrie barely bit back the response of 'Like you fucking care!' that rushed to her lips and instead growled. "Angry as fuck!"

Saul held her challenging stare, but did not respond to her aggressive tone. Finally he nodded and moved on. Carrie's hatred of him increasing as he focused on business once more. How could he dismiss Quinn's predicament so easily, after all the younger man had done for him. "OK, so what we got?" Saul asked.

And yet she was strangely relieved to move away from the previous subject, Carrie clicked the mouse and a picture of a massive bear of a man appeared on the screen in front of them.

Dar let out a long sigh. "Vladimir Konarski," he said. "I thought he was as dead as the KGB in '91!"

"So did the rest of the world," Carrie said, her tone was always professional but cold when she spoke to Dar Adal which was rarely. "But it appears he has re-surfaced." She went on. "He made money in oil after he left the KGB, but laterally he has moved his attention to pharmaceuticals and over the last couple of years has become very interested in micro biological engineering."

"The kind of guy to make a friend out of a virus," Adal sighed darkly.

"Indeed," Carrie agreed.

"We were opponents at the end of the Cold War," Dar admitted. "Though it pains me to say it, he was a smooth as silk operator, a worthy adversary."

"Wasn't he Aldrich Ames' handler?" Saul asked as he examined the man in the picture more closely.

Dar nodded. "Yes, amongst many others, which makes him directly responsible for the execution of at least ten of our assets in USSR in the early 90s. But that was only the tip of the ice berg; this was the man that put the fear into the KGB."

"So what the fuck is he doing now?" Carrie asked.

"It's me," Dar said. "He wants me. He wants me to pay but first he wants me to suffer. We always had unfinished business between us."

"How do you know?" Saul asked. "Sounds pretty far fetched. And why now?"

Dar looked uncomfortable and shrugged. "He was always a subtle operator but he knows I will get his point. He sent me a message with the three men that he returned; my best three operatives and now he is killing them in front of me, one by one, knowing I can't do a damn thing about it!"

"So what do we do?" Saul asked.

Dar sighed. "Whatever it is, it had better be good because you can bet Konarski will have this all mapped out. He has waited a long time for this, his planning will be meticulous."


	5. Next of Kin

**Next of Kin**

"You certainly seem to have made yourself at home," Carrie began as she looked around the laboratory that was now seemingly packed full of state of the art medical research equipment and white-coated lab assistants. "So have you made any progress?" she continued.

Addison's voice was strained, his tanned face drawn, making him look older but still damned attractive. "Not as much as I had hoped," he revealed. "We are still trying to break down this thing's genetic material. If we could do that we have a chance of understanding a little better what controls it and developing something to stop it from kicking in." He sighed. "But it's a long, slow process and I don't know whether we have enough time."

"How are your patients?" Carrie asked.

"Mr Renshaw is holding his own with the help of our machines although I don't expect that he will pull through this, still he is giving us valuable data. Mr Quinn is not exhibiting any symptoms so far but..." he hesitated, smiling superiorly, "Lets just say he doesn't react very well to being kept in captivity!"

Carrie snorted. "No, he wouldn't," she said. "Quinn is rather stubborn and likes to be in control, I'm afraid. Can I see him?"

Addison frowned. "We still have not completed the tests regarding contagion, so I wouldn't advise it."

"But I can talk to him, right?"

"Personally I would find it very difficult not to do anything you asked of me, Ms Mathison." Addison responded, switching on his beaming smile once more. "Of course you can. Follow me."

Carrie stiffened at the comment. She wanted to feel repelled by such an obvious come-on line but there was something about this beautiful, intelligent professor with his clipped English tones and his compliments that made her battered, frigid soul feel a little warmer, a little more alive. Somewhere deep inside she felt a tiny seed of attraction begin to grow. She remembered Quinn's toxic words of rejection following their explosive reunion; she needed to find somebody who was right for her, he had said. She was so tired of being alone and this Professor seemed to be giving her an invitation, be it more subtle than she was used to. If she was reading it right but who knew? She suddenly felt extremely tired. Was she wrong to crave a little happiness, companionship, love? To dare to hope that there was a man somewhere that she could find all these things with?

The tart smell of antiseptic was strong in the air, as Addison took her along the bright, white corridors and around a number of bends before they came to a stop at a long window. At the other side was the object of their previous conversation, Peter Quinn, looking pale and dishevelled with his crumpled grey shirt, whiskery chin and spiky hair. He was obviously refusing to wear any hospital dresses and was prowling around the room like the caged animal Addison had almost likened him to. So different from the urbane Professor, and yet Carrie felt a tightening in her bowels and a wave of guilt at her potential disloyalty washed through her when she saw his familiar form.

"I'll leave you to it, Ms Mathison. Mr Quinn and I do not appear to get a long too well, although I must say there is no animosity from my side." the Professor purred silkily. "Don't forget, if there is anything you need, I am your man." He held her stare and for one crazy moment Carrie thought he was going to gallantly stoop and kiss her hand but he simply, yet dazzlingly smiled confidently and walked away.

Carrie became conscious of Quinn staring at her through the window, his eyes blazing with something that could only have been intense hatred at Addison. Carrie felt a further pang of guilt at the girlish thrill that flickered deep inside her at Quinn's reaction, she pushed it away. Instead she smiled supportively and indicated the phone at the side of the window.

Quinn nodded and picked up the one on his side. His voice was raw as he asked, "Has he found a cure then?"

"Not yet." They stared at each in silence for a long moment before Carrie continued, "He says that you are not the most cooperative of patients. Seriously Quinn, you might make it easier to help him to find a cure, after all he is trying to save your life."

"Seriously Carrie, you know I am not good in hospitals!"

"Even so, this is important."

He was drinking her in with those wide, blue eyes, his stare so intense and yet so delicate. He ran his gaze along her and she felt like she was made of fine glass, so delicate she would break at the slightest touch. Suddenly it was hard for Carrie to breathe, so hard to pull herself away from those eyes. All that time, when she had had the chance to be close to him, she had never seen it, never really seen him, except for what he could give her, and now that he was untouchable she so desperately wanted to be close to him. She regretted the hard sex when he had come back from Syria in many ways, having never meant for it to go that far or end in the way it had; she saw now that she had allowed her anger to rule her but even so she also saw that she was thankful that they had managed to have that one moment of relative closeness, at least. A thundering desire rolled through her, so strong she almost dropped the phone. She wanted so much more and she could tell from the hunger in his eyes that he did too even if it was for only one last time.

"Fuck this!" she spat finally. "I'm coming in!"

"No!" he retorted drawing back away from the window as if that alone could stop her. "Don't do anything stupid, Carrie."

"All the people you and the others have been in contact with have been tested and nobody else has tested positive." As the words tumbled out in a torrid stream, she glanced up the corridor to see how she could get into the room, her overwhelming desire overriding everything else. Her impulsive need pushing her on. "There's no risk!"

"Stop, Carrie!" His voice was incredibly controlled and yet steeped with emotion, and she heard it, even down the impersonal telephone wire; so commanding that she stopped, gulped, and looked back at him. He waited silently, eyes wide until he saw that her initial impulse was slowing. Then he took a deep breath and began. "Carrie, I am fucking losing it here. I cannot cope with this. I know what you are feeling cos I feel it too. I want so much to touch you." He hesitated as she violently nodded her agreement, looking away from him to try to find a way to get to him again. When her gaze came back to his, he continued on. "There is only one thing keeping me together and that is you. I know you can get me out of this. I know you will find a way. I know you can do this." He paused waiting until she nodded more slowly showing she understood what he was saying. "If you come in here... If I infect you with this fucking thing... I couldn't ... I wouldn't..." His voice finally broke on the last word and he stopped, his moist eyes still locked on hers.

"Shit, Quinn," she whispered. She reached out her hand to touch the plastic in front of where he stood. He stared at her for long moments and then very slowly lifted his own, larger hand to cover hers with only the inanimate and uncaring plastic between them. "I can't lose you," she said softly.

He nodded and gulped. "Then go do what you do best, Carrie," he said. "I'm counting on you."

Carrie brushed away the tears as she left him not looking back for fear that she would never find the strength to leave should she look into his bottomless eyes one more time.

"Excuse me!" came a voice from down the corridor.

Carrie turned to see a young woman in a white laboratory coat carrying an iPad walking towards her. "I wonder if you can help?"

Carrie sniffed and nodded, not trusting her voice.

The laboratory assistant began talking. "I'm trying to fill in the appropriate forms, paperwork is always such a pain in the ass even when it's not... on paper I mean." She nodded to her iPad in explanation. "Anyway, Mr Quinn isn't being too helpful, I'm afraid."

Carrie snorted. "I'm sorry. I have talked to him about it."

The girl smiled. "No sweat. I guess he's in a pretty tough place right now. Any how I have no next of kin for him. And I wondered if you knew about his family, you know, who I should put down?"

Carrie felt a sudden pang of sadness. His family? Shit, she didn't know anything about them; Quinn had never spoken of any one else. The only ones she knew about were the mother of his child, Carrie had forgotten her name but Virgil knew the contact details and of course there was Astrid, who for all Carrie knew was still in Islamabad. Neither of these two options appeared appropriate or, as far as Carrie could see, desirable in anyway. She took a deep breath and made a decision.

"Put Carrie Mathison down," she said firmly.


	6. God Bless America

**God Bless America**

It was a rundown neighbourhood on the east side of town. Its former prosperity had long since fritted away and now every building needed a tidy up and a lick of paint. Once well kept yards had gone to seed, sidewalks were cracked and uneven, jobless teenagers hung about on the street corners leering aggressively at passerbys and mangy stray dogs rummaged about in overfilled trash cans to find food. The whole district seemed to be overshadowed by a cloud of apathy; life was fading as nobody cared enough to do anything that would make a difference.

Carrie took it all in as she drove slowly to the address Max had found for her. She noted the shabbiness as she walked up the uneven path picking her way between the piles of animal excrement and dirt to the house in question and banged on the grimy door.

After a few minutes and a second banging, Carrie could pick out a woman in the gloom inside peering out at her.

"Ms Kleist?" Carrie asked pushing at the door. "Ms Kristina Kleist? I'm Carrie Mathison. We spoke on the phone. May I come in please?"

The woman hesitated and then nodding lifelessly, she opened the door but did not step out into the daylight, preferring to meekly inhabit the shadows. She turned and padded through the house without a word, her battered slippers making a sucking sound on the sticky Lino. An overwhelmingly unpleasant smell of stale urine and something else hit Carrie as she followed, it grew stronger as she moved into the darkness of the house. Something rushed over her feet, scurrying wildly.

"Shit!" Carrie could not stop herself from jumping back and yelping in surprise.

There was a yowling noise from her left. And as she entered the slightly less dim living room area Carrie realised the place was full of cats. Cats of all sizes and colours. Everywhere! And that was what the smell was. Carrie swallowed back the bile that rose into her throat, forced herself to carry on into the room, where the elderly lady was sitting.

The chairs were all stained and covered in hair but Carrie forced herself to perch on the edge of the one indicated by the woman. The woman's back seemed to be permanently bent and as such it kept her face lowered to the floor but Carrie's eyes examined her as best she could. She was dressed in a dark grey sack-like dress that encased her body completely. It was stained and dirty with rips in places. Her hair matched the washed-out colour, scraped into a lacklustre bun at the back of her head but greasy wisps had escaped to dangle lifelessly about her face.

Kleist spoke eventually with an unmistakeable German accent, her voice as soulless and faded as the rest of her. "I know what you are thinking," she began. "How can anyone live in a hellhole like this? Well, let me tell you that it gets easier. The alternative is far worse - I cannot bear to be alone and my cats are my friends."

Carrie nodded impatiently, eager to get what she needed as quickly as possible and then be away, she said, "Would you tell me about Vladimir Konraski, Ms Kleist, please? You worked for him in the late 80s didn't you?"

The woman nodded her bowed head. "A great,great man. He told me you would be coming."

Carrie stopped, it was difficult to decipher the woman's words with her trembling weak voice and her accent and at first she thought that she had heard wrongly or that this pathetic old woman had her confused with somebody else. "He said what?" she clarified.

With an audible noise of bones grating, Kleist straightened her back and looked up at her, eyes suddenly alive and sparkling with mischief. Carrie was surprised to see that she had the kind of face that once may have held a delicate beauty but it had faded like a dying rose at the end of summer, and now that life and it's disappointments had sucked her dry, her face was desiccated, wrinkled like overused brown paper, and simply sad and tired. "He wrote me, told me you would be coming, asking about him."

"When was this? Do you have the letter?" Despite herself Carrie's heart was thumping a terrific tattoo in her chest, her alarm bells ringing loud.

Kleist let out a cackle. "Of course not! What sort of a spy do you take me for? I memorised the contents and then burned it!"

A cat jumped up beside her and made to push on to Carrie's lap but she distractedly batted it away. It fell to the floor with a disgruntled yelp. Ignoring it, Carrie frowned, she heeded to concentrate - just what the hell was going on here? "So what did he say?" she asked.

Again the cackle, this time for longer and Carrie was reminded of the fairy stories from her childhood - an old, mad woman living with her cats and cackling like a witch - this was just weird! Could she really get anything of value from this woman? But Max had done the research and swore that Kleist had worked for Konarski. And she was the only link they could find.

"He said to tell you of course he will talk to you and that to remember, in the world that we operate in, nothing is as it seems!" Kleist laughed again as if she had just told a hilarious joke.

Fighting to keep hold of her patience, Carrie said. "So how do I talk to him?"

"Give me your cell phone number and he will call you." Kleist's eyes were clear and bright.

As she left the house, Carrie turned back. "How did you end up here? It's a strange place for a KGB worker?"

Kleist drew in an affronted breath and then hissed, "KGB! Whatever gave you that idea liebchen? Vladimir and I were always CIA, God bless America! Here in the land of the free was always where I wanted to be ever since he took me from East Germany," she stopped and sniffed, "But not like this. I never wanted to be alone. Women should never be alone."

Carrie shivered at the sheer wanting in the older woman's eyes and then left as quickly as she could. She was brushing the cat hair from her pants, breathing in the fresh air as deeply as she could and still trying to compute all that had happened when her phone rang. She jumped, thinking unrealistically that it would be Konarski but the number and name that flashed up was a more familiar one.

"Hey," she said,

"Hey," Quinn responded.

"I have just had the most bizarre conversation with the woman we thought was Konarski's secretary," she began and quickly filled Quinn in on what had been said.

There was silence from the other end of the line. "Is she for real?" he asked finally and then added "I don't like this."

"Well right now it's the only lead we got, but Dar Adal was clear that Konarski was KGB. How could he not know? There is something wrong here."

Quinn sighed. "There's more," he said.

"Go on."

"Henshaw died a few minutes ago."

"Shit, Quinn. Are you OK?"

There was a long pause and Carrie pictured the impersonal hospital room, the tart smell of antiseptic overwhelming everything, and Quinn sitting still in that stoic way of his, so utterly alone. She bet that the rhythmic clenching of his jaw muscle would be the only outward sign of whatever was going on in his head and then shuddered at the thought - when did she get to know him so well that she could even begin to predict his behaviour?

"Not really," he disclosed finally with a despondent sigh There was a further long silence and then his voice came back, stronger, more like his normal self. "I bullied Virgil into bringing my laptop around and I've been looking at personnel files; mine, Delph's and Henshaw's," he disclosed.

"What, computer hacking another of your talents?" Carrie said.

"It was a hobby of mine in College," he responded drily.

"Harvard education gotta be good for something!" Carrie tried to inject a little humour, be it ever so weak.

"Yeah," Quinn didn't seem to have the vigour to argue but continued, "Anyway, I remember you saying Dar Adal said we were his three best men. It didn't ring true..."

"Don't be so modest, Quinn. I've seen you at work!"

He ignored her comment and continued, "Delph was a nice guy, too nice for his line of work and from what I read Henshaw had real substance misuse problems and me..." He hesitated and then continued, "There are a number of fuck ups detailed in those three files, I can't see how we can be the pride of Adal's forces. If so, Black Ops really is in the shit."

"What are you saying, Quinn?"

"The only thing that we three share is our desire to get out, to quit. Delph, Henshaw and me, we all wanted to leave."

"And that's important because?" Carrie asked.

"It makes us expendable in Dar's eyes."

Carrie shook her head. "What the fuck is he playing at?"

There were muffled voices down the telephone and then Quinn's voice was edgy as he said, "I got to go, the goddamn space cadets have arrived to stick some more fucking anti viral shit in to me. Be fucking careful, Carrie!"


	7. Boyfriend

**Boyfriend**

"Such a nice country," Konarski beamed as they looked out over the rolling green hills of the Country Club's golf course. In front of them a foursome of nattily dressed business men prepared to hole out. "Not as beautiful as my homeland obviously but, as you say, beggars cannot be choosers." He spoke prefect English with only the barest trace of a Russian accent but with massive movements of his hands to emphasise his points.

Carrie took a deep breath, working at hanging on to what was left of her patience. It was only just after noon and it had already been a long day. "Tell me what is going on."

The huge man smiled and leaned back into his arm chair which squeaked in protest as his massive bulk filled in all of its available space, straining it to its limit. "All in good time, Ms Mathison. In the meantime can I offer you a drink?" She shook her head, not trusting this man. "You do know you are being followed?" he continued, glancing at a man sitting at the bar, who appeared to be in deep conversation on his phone.

She nodded."I thought he was one of yours."

Konarski chuckled. "One of mine? Hardly. I expect if you opened him up you will see Dar Adal printed on his soul - he has that hopeless look."

"Dar Adal?"

"The great puppet master and destroyer of lives!" Konarski's voice was suddenly heart wrenchingly sad.

Carrie lost her weak hold on her temper. She leaned forward and spat. "Enough already! Just what the fuck is going on?"

Konarski refused to be intimidated and simply smiled cheerlessly. He waved his hands to encompass all around them. "I have been a shadow for so long, now I have come out into the light; let me at least feel the warmth of the sun on my face for a little while longer."

"I don't have any time for this shit," Carrie pressed. "I need answers and I need them quickly."

Konarski took a long gulp from his drink. "Vodka," he said lifting his glass high. "Surely my country's greatest creation!" His smile was indulgent to begin with but, as Carrie watched, it changed to become incredibly focused. His over-animated gestures ceased and he was completely still, a controlled, and yet potentially lethal stillness that somehow reminded her of Quinn. Try as she might to stop it, Carrie found herself fascinated by this intriguingly enigmatic man.

"I am sorry, my dear," he said lying his big hand gently on her knee, eyes twinkling. "I have always felt the need to play to my audience, to assume the limelight that my physical presence dictates. It has got me into trouble many times, more times than the vodka, if I am honest, but let me put your immediate concerns to rest. Yes, I have a 'pharmaceutical' business it is true. Yes, I am researching some very exciting and very frightening products, that too is true but I can categorically tell you that none of my products are in the bloodstream of your boyfriend. There was no virus on that bullet."

Carrie didn't know if she was more shocked by the denial, the fact that this stranger had called Quinn her boyfriend or the sudden sloppy pool of dumb warmth that such a notion brought to the depth of her belly. "My boyfriend?!" she spluttered before she could stop herself.

Konarski's face broke into the widest grin and he chuckled. "Sometimes what is closest to us is most difficult to see."

Regaining her composure, Carrie spat, "I don't believe you."

Konarski sighed and looked out over the golf course once more, suddenly silent.

Carrie gulped, fighting to keep hold of her temper. "Why should I believe you? Two men have died of this mysterious virus already."

"You should look to your own side." Konarski paused and turned back to regard her, his mysterious eyes drawing her in. "I have followed your career, Carrie Mathison, you are an impressive agent, you see things other people do not. You have a unique talent; don't ever let them tame you. Use it now - you will see!"

"Flattery is not proof!" Carrie snapped. "You have not given me one reason to believe anything you have said."

He nodded and his face grew deadly serious. "I worked for Dar Adal for seventeen years," he said the vivacity gone from his very being to be replaced by an ironic melancholy. "I gave him Aldrich Ames years before he was finally arrested but the mighty puppet master chose to keep the traitor in play. The devastation that he caused could have been stopped but no, dear Dar had eyes only for the glory and he was willing to risk anything, anyone, for the bigger prize. And when I grew disillusioned and wanted out, he threw me back to the KGB like worthless garbage while ensuring that the rest of the world believed me to be the enemy. He destroyed me utterly."

"There is no record of this," Carrie said. "Everything in our files shows you were always KGB."

"I didn't expect there would be - Dar is far too forensic to have left any trace. But think on what you know, Carrie Mathison. Is my experience any different from what you are going through now?"

"So what about the failed Black Ops missions?"

"I set them up, of course. I wanted to let Dar Adal know I was back in the game. I have stewed in my own failure for long enough and I have spent a lifetime watching him repeat his behaviours, devastate more lives and become even more powerful. Finally I believed I had accrued enough wealth and power to take him on. The failed missions were my way of announcing my reappearance on the stage."

"I want to believe you but you are giving me only words. I need evidence, proof!"

Konarski took another drink of his vodka. "Very well, believe me because this whole scenario is bullshit - he is playing you! There is no bullet that can plant a virus in a man, not yet, although it is something that both the Russians and the Americans, not to mention the Chinese and the North Koreans, are working very hard on. There is plenty of evidence to support this as the truth, if you research it. I believe in this day and age, you can find the answer to everything if you simply google it!"

"So why did the Black Ops guys die? And why is Quinn..." She hesitated as her voice hitched on his name and then forced herself to continue, ignoring Konarski's knowing grin. "Why is Quinn in the hospital?"

"Ask yourself who gains by their deaths? Not me; I made sure they all survived their operations, they were messengers only, I did not want them dead. There is only one person as far as I can see who would want that. I am proof that as soon as you are no longer useful to him, he will destroy you."

Carrie could see the logic, could even empathise with the sentiment, but still had no proof. "So all that is going on at the hospital…. Professor Addison... The testing? That is all some kind of fucking farce?

"There will be a reason for it."

She shook her head as the arguments raged within it. Finally, hating herself for appearing to side with him, she said, "Say what you like about Dar Adal, his motive is always the big picture. He is a patriot."

Konarski's chuckle was bitter. "I am sure he will be able to rationalise that his actions are for the greater good. He has always been very good at that. But is it simply a coincidence that this greater good he seeks always concludes with his own advancement?"

He heaved his bulk from out of the chair, which seemed to sag in relief, and his smile was infinitely sad. "I have nothing left that I can give you to make you see except I will leave you with one final piece of advice, if you would indulge an old Russian spy. The worst thing any human can suffer is to be alone. Remember that my dear Ms Mathison. Remember my dear Katrina, such a heartbreaker in her youth and now her own heart is broken. I would not wish that on someone as brilliant as you."

* * *

Quinn had stopped thumping things only because his knuckles had begun to bleed. He sat now, wrapping a piece of tissue around them, watching the stark white fibres turn to red, seemingly calm but inside roaring with anger and frustration. He had tried to wait, tried to do something of value to help Carrie but he could only hold his fear and aggravation at bay for a limited amount of time. He gazed bleakly at the damage he had wrought, not only on his hands but around the room also; a broken chair, a smashed up laptop and various pieces of broken crockery and linen strewn about the floor.

He ran his battered hand through his hair neurotically; he did not feel any better.

All of the nurses and laboratory assistants had retreated out of the room when the violent rage had claimed him, realising that this was a threat from which their pristine biohazard suits could not protect them. He was vaguely aware of them now, white anonymous helmets bobbing up and down as they watched through the observation window. Nobody was eager to risk re-entering the room.

Suddenly a flash of blonde streaked past them. The door clicked open with a rush of chill air. He stood up stunned as she moved towards him in a whirlwind of wanting.

"Carrie?" He tried to say but she took him in her arms, pulled his head downwards, parted her lips and one hand reached up to cradle his head while the other slid around his waist. Before he knew what was happening, he was ignoring the voice deep inside that ordered him to stop, and he was kissing her heatedly, frantically pressing his lips against her, licking, gently biting, not so gently biting and she was squirming in his arms, her breath coming in short little gasps.

Carrie could feel her own arousal soaking through her lacy underwear and momentarily surrendering to the impulse, she ground her pelvis against his thigh where his leg had somehow slipped between hers. It would take a real effort of will to pull away from his touch, the yearning in her blood was so strong as she felt his arms engulf her and his hot arousal hard against her flesh. But pull away she did or at least tried to.

"Quinn," her voice was husky from unfulfilled passion. He blinked, his wild eyes trying to focus, trying to return from the place her unexpected, passionate arrival had promised him but it was so difficult to let go after everything that had gone before. He could not, not now the fire had been reignited deep within him. He continued to hold her as tightly as he could, wanting her in a way he had never experienced before. Never had the flaming desire for possession come over him as it did with this woman as he held her in his arms once more. Never had he wanted to hear his name spoken from lips swollen from his kisses as he did now. Never had he wanted to protect anybody as much as he did Carrie. He forgot everything else and simply held her against him, lowering his head, his mouth once more seeking hers but she pushed him away, her hands on his chest shoving him back.

"Quinn, stop it!" Her voice was pleading. "Let me go." She beat her hands on his chest and slowly she eased him back to the world.

"What?" he asked, the confusion and dissatisfaction evident in his voice.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I couldn't help it." She put distance between them, beginning to stride about the room obsessively. "I just saw you in here and the relief overcame me." His eyes narrowed as he worked to still his throbbing heart and regain control of his body while trying to understand what she was telling him. "There is no virus, Quinn," she said, voice breaking. "There never was. You're OK!"

"The fuck?" Was all he could respond. And then he sat down on the bed, a dazed look on his face as the shock stole the strength from his legs. "So I've been sitting in here like a fucking idiot?" he muttered.

Carrie moved back to him again. "Konarski told me. There is no virus. This is all about him and Dar Adal playing mind games that we have got stuck in the middle of somehow."

"And you believe him?"

She nodded. "He was pretty convincing. And the more I think about it, the more it fits into place." She reached into her bag and brought out Quinn's trusted Glock. "I believe it enough for you and me to go and talk to the bastard!"

"If it's true I want to rip his fucking skin off," Quinn said with quiet firmness as he accepted the gun, habitually checked it, shoved it into his belt and stood up, feeling his anger beginning to rekindle.

"Me too," Carrie agreed no less resolutely. She looked across at him and they shared a blazing stare of complete understanding both unconsciously gravitating toward the other in an unseen magnetic pull. Quinn made to reach out and touch her face again but he was stopped by the phone buzzing urgently in her pocket. Taking it out she frowned. "Konarski?" she asked.

"Hello," came a young female Russian voice on the other end. "Are you Carrie Mathison?"

"Yes I am. Who am I speaking to?"

"My name is Nikita Konarski. My father asked me to phone you."

"Is he OK?"

"No, he is not. He was killed just after he met you; the police say it was a hit and run. I know different." The voice was cold and emotionless.

"Oh, that's ...I'm sorry for your loss."

"My father knew his time in the sun was ended. Once he revealed himself to you, he knew that he would not be allowed to live. He believed his death would give you the evidence he could not give you in life. His final dream was that you would finish what he started."

"Dar Adal?"

"It was his hope."

"I am going there now."

There was a pause and then Nikita continued," I will not contact you again. I trust my father chose well and you will do the right thing." The phone went dead.

Quinn raised his eyebrows in question. "Come on," Carrie said. "We have to get to Adal. I'll explain on the way."


	8. The Damage We Do

**The Damage We Do**

After making their way through security and into Langley, Carrie and Quinn were greeted by two overly muscled mountains of men who proceeded to escort them, not to Dar Adal's office, but to one of the large conference rooms on the fourth floor. Carrie threw Quinn a concerned glance and he shrugged confidently but as they followed, his hand was never far away from the Glock that bulged at his waist.

The two security men ushered them into the long, brightly lit room, at the far end of which Dar Adal sat, watching them intently. He chuckled humourlessly as the door was closed behind them. "Finally, Mathison and Quinn, the most ridiculous relationship I have ever seen in the CIA, and believe me I've seen a few that were doomed from the get go. I've been waiting for you to manage to put the pieces together. What took you so long Crazy Carrie and Quivering Quinn?" he purred smugly.

"Get Saul in here right now!" Carrie spat, the emotion evident in her voice as she surged forward angrily.

"That's not possible." Adal sighed, unconcerned and dismissive. "Quite frankly Saul has more important things on his mind. A new age has dawned. He is back in charge but he is not the same man as last time. He left his spineless, indulgent side in the sweat and dirt and pain of Islamabad. You helped create the new stronger Saul, Carrie, you should be very proud. And now we have all moved on; what once was significant and relationships that mattered are no longer important. To put it as succinctly as I can; Saul is done with you. He has had enough of your delusional hunches, your uninhibited fucking of our assets and your uncontrollable mental illness - a man can only take so much. So, he's cutting you adrift rather like I am doing to Peter. All former alliances are off. There's no safety, no security anywhere now. The two of you are on your own - Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle fucking Dumber and we are moving into the endgame." Dar Adal's eyes were inscrutable as they bore into her.

Carrie hesitated, momentarily flummoxed by both the chilling intensity of the tirade and the message it delivered. Sensing her indecision, Quinn stepped forward, the Glock springing to his hand effortlessly as if gravitating to its natural place in the world. "We want answers," he demanded but his voice sounded uncharacteristically lacking in conviction as he asked, "What the fuck is going on?"

Dar Adal threw a scornfully savage glare at him and then completely ignored him as he continued to focus his penetrating attack pointedly towards Carrie. "This is all your fault, Carrie, of course. I recruited him, I brought him on. You ruined him. Oh, he always had his demons, but I humoured him, I nurtured him, allowed him the weakness because I knew he would never find the courage to get out, not really; he would always come back to me. He was mine. And then you came along. He was one of the best, never fucked up one mission not until you, now everything he touches is fucked." He shook his head sadly. "A good leader has to know when to cut his losses and make the difficult decisions. Peter is a wreck, damaged beyond repair, the proverbial train crash, good for nothing, like those other two idiots Delyth and Henshaw. Their only remaining value is to die and in doing so unite the rest of my team behind a common enemy - the Russian spy who killed them. What are three insignificant lives against the greater good?"

"You make it sound like a fucking team building exercise. How dare you throw the lives of brave men away!" Carrie tried to fight back as she sensed Quinn wavering unsteadily beside her.

"You really don't get it, do you, Carrie." Adal continued brandishing his words with the confidence of a skilled swordsman preparing for the killing stroke, his eyes flashing with vicious delight. "That is what the CIA has always done. That is what America has always done. It is the wisdom and benefit of old men like me that we wield the power to send young men to die for us. In order to keep the rest of us safe!"

Carrie's attention was suddenly drawn from Adal's hated face back to Quinn as, out of the corner of her eye, she became aware that the gun in his hand was shaking erratically. She glanced at him and a rush of horror clutched at her, causing her bowels to freeze. She could not look away as she noted the changes that had come over him in the few moments since their entry into the room. Not only was Quinn's hand shuddering shakily but his skin had lost all colour, fading to grey and resembling old, decaying parchment except around his cheekbones were a florid flush of fever burned, there was a sheen of sweat sparkling across his brow and his newly bloodshot eyes appeared to have sunken deep into his skull. Those eyes flared across at her, full of shocked confusion and fear and pain. She watched in horror as he lost his fight to keep hold of the gun, dropped it with a clatter, staggered forward, raising his hand to his mouth weakly as he coughed up a violent stream of scarlet blood and then fell to the floor with a pitiable groan.

"Quinn!" she screamed and was beside his spasming body as he gasped for air. His frantic eyes looked up at her, pleading silently, as she took hold of him.

Adal' s voice came closer as he moved around the table. "You really should not trust KGB agents, Carrie, have you learnt nothing? Of course there is a virus in Peter's bloodstream. No, it wasn't on the Russian bullet; such advancement in technology is unfortunately still too much for us. It was in the last injection the nurses gave him; not anti-viral drugs at all but something a whole lot more interesting and sinister. When was your last shot, Peter? Because I am reliably informed by Professor Addison, who developed this particular strain, has an incubation period of a little less than four hours before it begins to shut down all of the body's major organs." He shook his head with feigned sadness. "And I think you are out of time!"

While Carrie's attention had been on Quinn, a gun had appeared in Adal's hand and he waved it nonchalantly at her. "Move away from him," he ordered.

Ignoring his demand, Carrie looked Adal straight in the eye and with a voice bordering on the edge of panic, she asked. "What do you want?"

Adal rolled his eyes. "I want you to move away from him."

"I won't leave him. I won't let him die!"

Adal snorted. "This time it's a little too late for your misguided histrionics."

Quinn's eyes were now tightly shut, a dribble of blood was running down the side of his mouth, and he fought to take rasping, pain-filled breaths as his body convulsed. Carrie couldn't tell if he was even aware of what was happening but she really did not want to let him go; it felt like such a defeat; so final. Reluctantly she gave him one last reassuring squeeze, with extreme gentleness lay him down on the floor and moved away to stand in front of Adal and his triumphant smile.

"It was always going to end this way," Adal boasted exultantly. "As soon as you told me you knew about Haqqani and the arrangement I made in Islamabad, this was the only conclusion. You must understand that I can't let you live. Then the issue becomes how I can make as much use of you as possible before I finish you because, regardless of what you may feel at this moment, I do not dispose of resources until I absolutely have no other alternative. I must admit, after you disclosed your intel to me, I thought you would have done more to protect yourself but of course you were more concerned about dear Peter and saving that which could never be saved. It's a pattern you seem to repeat endlessly Carrie. Doesn't it get tedious, making the same mistakes over and over?"

She drew in a shuddering breath, forcing back the panic, the fear, trying to think her way out of this predicament as Adal continued, "Still, it will be over soon enough. Two birds with one stone, not bad, even for me. In one day I have gotten rid of Konarski and you; takes some doing, even for a skilled operator. You see why I needed you, of course; to draw him out. I knew he would take you as the bait, he never could resist a pretty blonde agent and you, with your weak yet touching concern and need to heal Quinn, guided me straight to him."

She felt it then, the same terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach as she had felt in Islamabad, the heart-breaking, gut-wrenching, crushing knowledge that all was lost. But this time it was worse, at least there she had salvaged something, this time it felt so irrevocable. She clenched her fists in frustration, longing to be able to smash that conceited, victorious grin off Adal's face, but his gun was between them and she knew she would never get to him.

"You bastard!" she spat, resorting to the only weapon she had left - words. "We are supposed to be on the same side."

"Only for as long as I need you," Adal chuckled. "Now, shall I tell you how it ends? This is the last time you will ever interfere with my plans. Crazy Carrie, the media's favourite fucked up CIA story, is about to run amok. She's going to shoot her colleague Peter Quinn and maybe another couple of operatives along the way. She is only going to be stopped by a bullet from quick-thinking, heroic Dar Adal, although I am going to keep my name out of the papers of course. Publicity is so not a good thing for the Head of Black Ops, obviously!"

He raised his gun. Carrie stood, trembling, her breath coming in soft hiccups, she channelled all of the impotent hate and frustrated anger that was rushing through her to eloquently glare at him. "You are a fucking self-serving, egotistical traitor!" she hissed.

"You surprise me, Carrie Mathison, I did not have you down as being so fucking naive," Dar said almost wistfully. "It is the way of the world; one man can determine the fate of nations but that power will never be in the hands of the dashing young assassin with a sniper rifle, it will always be with the grizzled, old veteran with a mobile phone and a huge bank account who manipulates and controls the youngster."

The gun shot rang out and Carrie jumped despite herself but there was no resulting pain, no blackness... no change at all. It took her a couple of seconds to open her eyes. When she did so, time seemed to have slowed down and the scene had grown distant from her, crystallising into greyness; all the colour had leeched away from the room except for the huge and growing crimson stain flowering on the chest of Dar Adal's pristine white shirt. His dark eyes, full of shock and surprise, looked down at it, back at her, and then began to glaze over.

"Not this fucking time, asshole!" The voice, through gritted teeth, drained and desperate but so brave, came from behind her and she turned to see Quinn had somehow retrieved his gun, pulled himself to his knees and taken the shot, even though his hands were shaking impossibly wildly. As she watched he groaned in agony, dropped the gun, crumpled in on himself and slowly fell forward at exactly the same time as Dar Adal's lifeless form hit the floor.

"Quinn!" Carrie shrieked.

The conference room door burst open and as the two burly guards entered, time rushed back to normal speed and colour returned. Carrie threw herself to Quinn's side, gathering him up in her arms, heedless of the danger the unknown virus may present to her. The heat that was radiating off him was immense and his damp, slippery body shivered so ferociously she had great difficulty in holding him. His eyes were tight shut, his face contorted in pain and as she held him, he retched up massive clots of blood.

"Medic!" she screamed as sheer terror took her. "Somebody get me a fucking medic!"


	9. Remembering

**Remembering**

The hours, days, weeks after that fateful day were a blur of emotion and panic to Carrie. She had vague memories of certain episodes but mostly she had been working on autopilot, reacting to each situation that hit her without the capacity to comprehend its significance or the ability to plan ahead, using only her instinct to negotiate the way forward.

She remembered taking a group of CIA agents with her and stopping Professor Addison at the airport as he prepared to make his escape to California, hauling him back, putting a gun to his head and saying. "If you do not fucking save him, I will decorate the walls with your fucking treacherous brain!" It had seemed to work because from that point Addison had become very focused on giving all the aid he could to those treating Quinn providing an anti-viral drug that had been effective immediately.

She remembered trying to look after Franny, to juggle being a mother and spending every waking hour at the hospital praying. After promising her father at his funeral that she would take over, she had felt tremendous guilt when she had been unable to do so. Thank God Maggie had been there to pick up the pieces yet again when she had simply stretched herself too tightly in two opposite directions and almost ripped herself apart.

She remembered long hours at the hospital, listening to doctors explaining that although the virus had been neutralised quickly it was not the problem now. Now it was the damage that the bastard thing had managed to inflict on vulnerable vital organs for the period it had been active. She had lost count of the number of times she had been told that the reason Quinn had survived as long as he had was because he had been terrifically fit and resilient and the medics had got to him so fast. Doctors, hiding behind their stiff, sympathetic smiles, would always go on to say that only time would tell whether his body would ever be able to recover from the damage it had suffered and she should not hold out any hope that he would be able to live as he had before.

Hospitals at night were incredibly lonely places and she remembered spending her share of the dark hours walking the silent corridors, speaking meaningless platitudes to other people who shared with her the same dull desperation in their eyes as their loved ones clung to life in the Intensive Care unit too and she remembered drinking the almost-drinkable coffee from machines which alternatively dribbled dully or gushed like a hot tsunami into plastic cups that either way burnt your fingers when you tried to lift them up. She remembered sitting holding his flaccid hand as he lay in a coma, she staring bleakly at numbers flashing on machines with their, thank god, ever present background bleeping heartbeat sound as the only accompaniment through the lonely nights.

She remembered attending a long and stilted debrief session with Saul but she chose to delete the specifics of what had actually been discussed from her mind. There would come a time when it would be important to her and she would need to act on what had been said and what had not been said, but that time was not now; it would wait.

She remembered how lonely she felt. How utterly alone. The loss of her father and of her closeness to Saul played on her mind but most of all she missed Quinn. There was a physical need of course; the fact that their only consummated physical sexual encounter could not take on the gravitas it should have done because of its circumstances hurt her more than she cared to explore and the other times they had been close had only succeeded in giving her tantalising glimpses of what could have been. But she realised she missed so much more; his friendship, his pure and unfailing support for her and the undeniable trust that had built up between them. He really and truly had watched her back except for that one occasion when he had lost his nerve at her hesitation and gone to Syria. How she wished they could go back to that dreamy night. She knew her response would be so very different had she known what lay ahead, if she only could. Knowing that he was not able to have her back any more made her feel so pathetically exposed. In her deepest, darkest moments she really questioned whether she was strong enough to go on without the life-affirming encouragement she now saw he had given her.

And she remembered that still, airless summer night with the air conditioning thrumming in the distance, when she had woken, her muscles cramped from sleeping in the same chair as every other night, lifting her head from where it had rested on his chest and she had seen his clear, blue eyes open and looking at her questioningly. She remembered the intense, delicious lurch her stomach had made when his mouth had quirked into an almost smile and the ludicrous compulsion that his waking had brought her to laugh inanely forever.

As she sat by the window in the hospital room looking out at the brilliant blue sky and the summer's day it had brought, she dully remembered these things but couldn't recall any more of the horrific details, for which she was thankful.

He was beside her now, still hooked up to and relying on too many machines for both their liking. Skin pallid, eyes dull, body weak and smelling of hospitals, she had the awful thought that he now belonged only here, as if this had become his natural environment, where he was supposed to be; a frail institutionalised creature. So different from the independent, strong and edgy man she had known and she had fallen so slowly but irrevocably in love with. She now found herself fighting hard to remember that Quinn in the vain hope that if she could only envisage him it would bring that man back to her.

He was truly broken physically now, possibly beyond repair. He had been exhausted just manoeuvring the short distance from the bed to the chair and after only a few moments taking in the view, he had fallen asleep, his head on her shoulder. Pushing her worries away, she smiled, lifting her hand to tenderly stroke away the unruly spiky hair that had fallen forward on to his face, luxuriating in being able to simply touch him. He stirred, murmuring softly but did not wake. She didn't know if she could love the damaged man he had become but she knew he needed her and she was prepared to do whatever it took to get him what he needed; after all that was only fair - he had suffered all this only for her.

She had no illusions that the road from this place where they now found themselves would be even harder than the one they had travelled up to this point but she was prepared to face whatever it took. She smiled again, recollecting that there had been moments, be they few, when the old Quinn appeared. She remembered his startled look that he couldn't quite hide, when she had pronounced solemnly. "If I can't be your lover, I'll be your nurse!"

He had recovered quickly enough to mutter dryly, "Carrie Mathison nurse? Fuck that! Lover is what I'm working towards." Rolling his eyes in that quirky yet mysterious way of his. And she knew if anyone could overcome such tortuous injuries and become the man he had once had been, it would be Mr Peter 'Reliable' Quinn.

But that was all in the future, at this moment Carrie was happy in a way; happy that they had survived this far and happy that they had something to look forward to. She now had two vulnerable and yet valuable souls relying only on her; she had never felt so needed and the responsibility was both frightening and somehow invigorating. Everything she held, she determined to keep so very close that she would never fear losing it again.

They could not change what had gone before but they could start to make a new, better ending for themselves.

THE END

_NB: Thanks all for taking the time to read. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. Off to lie down in a darkened room and percolate on a sequel. Love to all..._


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